


Golden Shadow

by DarthGarou



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, and of said bodies being eaten, mentions of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 18:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthGarou/pseuds/DarthGarou
Summary: In the deepest pits of Angband, Melkor sings.





	Golden Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prackspoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prackspoor/gifts).



> For the delightful creature mentioned above, whose headcanons and humour are so on point I feel like I am barely an inch away from stabbing myself in the eye with them.  
> (The title should be a direct translation of Glaurung's name. I suck at titles.)

When your existence comes into focus, you are merely a speck of consciousness swimming in the darkness. All of your attention, which is not so much, is directed to the Song - the Song that resonates through your forming mind, encompassing it like a cradle, guiding it like a lighthouse guides lost ships.

The Song leads you to a body built to house you, only for you to realise you have had it even before your consciousness was conceived. 

Settling in it, you can’t help but feel small and weak - the cold seeps inside of you through your thin skin, your bones are hardly strong enough to support your weight. And then the Song soaks into your skin and runs through you, shifting the reality to strengthen your bones and thicken your skin.

A rush of warmth sets your insides ablaze and nestles in the pit of your belly. 

It’s easier for you to make out the Voice that sings the Song now, rumbling like a volcano spewing fire and howling like a freezing blizzard, earthy and ancient, otherworldly and everchanging. The Song remains the sole focus of your attention and you drink in the words you cannot hope to ever understand...

But you do understand the concept of creation and that feels like enough.

The Song compels you to move and so you do, unease invading your first thoughts upon learning of the size of your body. There is too little of you to fill all of it and you start thrashing and flailing your limbs as the emptiness dwelling in the depth of your belly begins to take over.

You crash into something and your creator ceases singing the Song, instead making a hacking sound that keeps repeating itself and resonates through you like an avalanche. It bubbles down to a hum and you feel something on your body, touching your neck and the side of your head.

A surge of strength follows the touch and you whip your tail in elation, a delighted screech leaving your mouth.

Yes, you have a mouth. Filled with sharp teeth. When you turn your head and snap at the thing touching you, the avalanche returns. You cannot fathom why, but this time, you drink the sound in eagerly and revel in it.

The touch travels along your jaw and rests on your snout, accompanied by the strengthening Song and the sound of several steps. The smell of charred flesh invades your nostrils and you find it endearing, even though you somehow know that fire was not responsible for these burns.

Upon discovering your tongue, you slide it past your teeth and lick the thing that is touching you. The taste makes you think of sacrilege, fire storms and spears of ice, wrought iron and the foundations of world, even though you still fail to understand half of it.

It must be the taste of your creator.

Another rumble of an avalanche fills the room and you perk up.

The Song changes after the avalanche subsides, and it reshapes your consciousness. Your mind begins to expand at a pace rapid enough for you to lose track of all the new concepts introduced to you and instead of tracking your progress thought to thought, you surrender yourself to the Song and let it permeate you wholly and thoroughly.

You know you shall become mighty and terrible, a leader of populous armies and a destroyer of numerous foes, your name uttered in hushed whispers with awed dread. Briefly, you ponder what name that is, but the glory promised by the Song sends more heat into the core of your body, filling the emptiness you were so afraid of.

And then your insides feel too full of heat and warmth. Compelled by the Song, you release it, hurling flames out of your open mouth a moment after you feel your creator move out of the way.

The rumbling sound - laughing, that is what it is - comes back accompanied by a fire crackling somewhere and the smell of burnt cloth. 

_ Yes, like that _ , the Song whispers as it treads among your thoughts. You can see the world burnt to smouldering coals under the might of your fire once it matures and you feel an impatient yearning taking hold of you at the thought.

_ All in due time _ , the Song promises as it shushes you.

It lets you peer at the whole world with your creator’s eyes then, and for the briefest of moments, you understand how it all holds together, from the highest pillars of heaven to the deepest trenches beneath the earth. You gaze at the expanse of Arda, transfixed and greedy and eager to devour all that you might.

The laughter fills the air once again and your creator lifts his hands from your skin. You understand the words that are spoken next.

“Open your eyes.”

So you do.

In the depths of your creator’s lightless eyes, you see a reflection of your own - deep and compelling and metallic, molten copper and iron twirling and mixing around your thin black pupils.

Then, your focus shifts to the whole of your creator’s form. You note a sharp wickedness and deep satisfaction in his smirk as he regards you. Already, you stand tall enough to easily devour the puny form he has forced his fëa into and yet you are intent on carrying out his will, your loyalty firm and unwavering.

You see the vast expanse of darkness gathered around the flesh he wears, punctuated by the fires in the depths of the world as well as the ice crowning the highest mountains. Smoke fills your vision and great ash clouds gather under the high ceiling, lightning connecting them like a bright thread.

His might has shaped the reality surrounding you, warped it to his liking, and the whole fortress weighs down on you like a manifestation of his will for the briefest moment. It may have taken an exhausting song to make you, but one note is all it would take to unravel the threads of reality binding you together.

And yet you do not cower despite being only a whelp dreaming of its future glory - instead, you puff up your chest and straighten your neck, holding your creator’s gaze.

The smirk curving his lips grows wider.

Before trying to speak with words, you make a growling sound that rattles your bones. Then, you speak and your voice is strained with the weight of centuries you have yet to live through.

“What is my name?”

The smirk eats up your creator’s face.

“I have given you a mind to think and the words to voice your thoughts,” he says, his voice booming like tectonic plates colliding to create a mountain range. “What do you want your name to be?”

You recall the song and its plan for you - the enormous mass of your body covered in thick golden scales that gleam in the fire raging about you, the ash and dust left in your wake as you make your mark upon the world, the glory and the riches and the destruction.

Smoke trails out of your nostrils as you think and sift through the words, twisting and bending them. And then it clicks.

Your creator’s watchful gaze is trained on you, a little curious. 

“Glaurung,” you bellow. The sound of it hollows out your bones and you need to hear it again. “Glaurung! My name is Glaurung!”

He narrows his eyes affectionately and repeats your name, attuning its sound to his fleshy lips.

Then, he calls out a name and the echo runs along the walls, spreading through the whole fortress. The name sounds guttural and cruel in a way that makes heat gather in the pit of your stomach.

You feel the steps and the creaking of something in the corridor a long time before you hear it.

The doors open, revealing a tall figure crowned with fire that blinds you, your eyes too young and sensitive to withstand it. The figure enters with something sweet-smelling in its vicinity, and you go after the smell on instinct alone.

“Why do you need so many-” the figure begins, but then it sees you and just stares for a long while before saying, “fresh bodies.” You think it was meant to be a question.

The two of you stare each other down, two pairs of metallic eyes with slit pupils clashing and grinding before most of the tension eases out and you manage to discern, or feel, or maybe see with your creator’s eye, more similarities than just the eyes. 

Logic dictates that this wicked figure crowned with flames came before you and  _ you _ are the one bearing similarities to  _ it _ , not the other way around.

Tentatively, it reaches out a hand in your direction.

You meet its searing palm with your snout and revel in the heat bleeding into the rest of your body from the point of contact. After taking a step towards it - and then another - you nuzzle up to the hand.

It makes the figure laugh, a sound sharper than the crackling of fire. Its eyes are glowing.

“What do they call you, little one?” it asks.

The avalanche of your creator’s laugh comes back at that, joined by a quiet snicker from the fire-crowned figure. You do not let the nonsensical laughing disturb you. 

“Glaurung,” you answer with as much presence as you can muster. The figure seems impressed, its fires flickering with curiosity. “What do they call  _ you _ , spirit of flame?”

It laughs again, a fey and sinister sound that makes you want to hear it sing. The voice it uses to speak rings loud and clear through the hall, self-assured and victorious on a battlefield where the battle is yet to be fought.

“They call me many things, Glaurung, first of the dragons, and the names matter little more than not at all.”

You feel like the fire-crowned figure is telling the truth and lying at the same time, and you wonder if you will ever be able to talk like that.

The figure runs a scorching palm along the firm line of your jaw and says, as if it’s sharing the deepest of secrets with you, “Maybe I shall take it upon myself to teach you to talk like that in the future. But not now.”

The warmth leaves your body and you turn your head to where the fire-crowned figure is pointing. Fresh bodies, you recall, and you can’t help but lick your teeth, hunger rising within you like a tidal wave.

“Now,” your creator purrs, and the sound of it is like a mountain collapsing into itself,  “you shall feast. I intend to make sure only the strongest and noblest of our captives are selected to satisfy your hunger.”

You let out an overjoyed rumble as you stumble towards the cadavers, still unsure on your legs. 

As you devour them, little by little, you feel yourself swelling to larger size already, the fire in the confines of your body burning hotter and more intense. You roast the remainder of the bodies with it. It makes the meat taste better.

Your creator and the fire-crowned figure with many names laugh delightedly at the sight of you. Something starts gurgling within you, a dry and rattling sound that makes you conclude that you must be laughing, too.


End file.
